Socii
by aadarshinah
Summary: In which John does a lot of sleeping, much to everyone's dismay. #13 in the Ancient!John 'verse. John/Rodney
1. Pars Una

_Socii_

An Ancient!John Story

* * *

><p><em>Pars Una<em>

* * *

><p>"...putting your life and other people's lives at risk. You destroyed three quarters of a solar system!"<p>

Rodney's barely paying attention to Elizabeth, despite the fact she's shouting, angrier than he's ever seen her. He should be, he knows. She'll be angrier still when she realizes he's ignoring her, but, God, how can she expect him to listen to anything she says when John's in the infirmary and has been for over an hour without Carson being able to find a sign that anything wrong with him other than the fact that he can't – or won't – wake up.

"Five sixths," he mutters. The _Daedalus_ had arrived a Doranda to check up on them about fifteen minutes after the weapons system had finished overloading. They'd surveyed what little remained, which is mostly particle-sized debris and a Jovian planet at the edge of the system. Given enough time, it could be an interesting case study to see if the debris helped turn the gas giant into a proper star. Rodney thinks he'd be more excited about the prospect, if only they could get John to wake up. "It's not an exact science."

"Rodney," she snaps, her voice almost as cutting as her words, "can you give your ego a rest for one second?"

_He_ snaps at this. "You honestly think if I had any idea something like this could happen, I would've asked John to uplink to the outpost? Hell, if I ever thought such an extreme overload like this was even a _possibility_, I'd never have asked him to go through with it. I want to get rid of the Wraith as much as the next person, but I'm not _stupid_, particularly when it comes to..."

Rodney literally feels himself deflate as he comes to the end of his rant, and collapses into the nearest chair before he can finish, feeling tired and more than a little broken. He looks at the floor for a moment, trying to find the words that usually come so readily to his lips, before giving up altogether, ready for whatever further condemnations she might have. The sooner she gets through them all, at least, the sooner he can get back to the infirmary. Hopefully Carson will have figured out what's wrong with John by then.

Elizabeth must see this, though, because when he looks up, her expression has somehow transformed from _sit down, shut up, and listen _to _I'm so sorry_ in the space of those few seconds. "I know you didn't mean for this to happen," she says, sinking down into her own seat, "but you've got to be more careful. It's one thing to take risks when we're already in a life-or-death situation, but it's another entirely when Atlantis isn't in immediate danger."

"I know. But I truly thought I'd solved the problem, and John was so certain he'd be able to manage the containment field..."

"John puts a lot of pressure on himself, especially when it comes to getting rid of the Wraith."

"That's just it," Rodney says frustratedly. "I don't think this is about the Wraith. I mean, don't get me wrong, if given half the chance, I'd think he'd have no qualms about wiping them off the face of the galaxy in the most spectacularly self-destructive way possible, but ever since the _Daedalus_ came back with news of SG-1 encountering the Ori... I think the Ori terrify him in a way the Wraith never have. Not that that's ever stopped him from taking stupid risks before, but..."

"But he still should've known better," Elizabeth finishes.

His response is a half-sighed, "Yeah."

"And so should you," she adds pointedly before sighing herself and saying, "I know you want to get back up to the infirmary, so I'll not keep you any longer, just... think about what I said, alright?"

* * *

><p>Carson's made no progress by the time Rodney gets back to the infirmary, that much is obvious by the way John's still out cold. He's got his medical staff minions running the Ancient version of an MRI over him, and is frowning at the screen showing him the results – that much is clear before Rodney even makes it three steps into the room.<p>

"This cannae be possible," the good doctor tells one of his nurses, clearly too absorbed in his work to have noticed his entrance. Well, that and the fact that all the lights in the infirmary are dimmed, save for the ones directly above John. He figures that is Atlantis' doing, not Carson's, and wishes for a moment he could talk to the city like John can, to tell her that her favoured son would be alright. Hopefully. He settles for patting the door frame sympathetically before making his way further in. "Are you sure the scanner's properly calibrated?"

"We've checked it twice, but I can call one of the engineers up here if you'd like them to check it out."

"Do that, would you?"

"Don't bother," Rodney tells them, making his presence known as he steps up to John's bedside. It looks so wrong to see him lying there, so pale and still. In the white scrubs they've changed him into, he looks all too like the corpses they recovered from the outpost and the auxiliary control centre. He has to clench his hands to keep from reaching out taking John's, afraid to feel how cold it might be. "I might as well take a look at it since I'm here. I take it you've not made any progress then?"

"As far as I can tell, there's absolutely no reason for him to be unconscious. I've put him under the scanner, and he only thing _that_'s telling me is that his brain's working at levels far beyond human normal, but..."

"...but," Rodney finishes for him, tearing his eyes away from John long enough to glance at the results of the latest brain scan, "human above-normal could be below-normal for an Ancient."

Carson's still frowning as he nods in agreement, "Especially one that was Ascended."

"Hasn't he been letting you run tests on him, though?" Rodney seems to remember tests, ones that rather annoyed John and had led to more than a few original _Star Trek_ marathons. So many, in fact, that they were almost done with the first series, even considering how often they had to go back and re-watch episodes because they'd gotten... distracted... midway through.

"Nae for a while, actually. I've been focusing on getting the Wraith antivirus working... Are you sure you told me everything that happened at the outpost?"

"Yes!" Rodney huffs, "We injected the nanoids into the outpost's central computing core, then went back to the jumper to wait for them to spread throughout the system. Once they came online, we started the test. It overloaded, and John flew us out of there before the weapon went critical."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure!"

Carson holds up his hands placatingly. "What I mean is, our computers have programs to keep intruders out, mightnae the Ancients have done the same thing with the computers on their secret research base?"

"But John's not an intruder. He's one of their _pastores._ The computers shouldhave recognized that."

"But what if it didnae? Or couldnae?"

Anything was possible, Rodney supposes. The Dorandan computers could have been damaged during one of the earlier tests of the weapon, in a way that only knocked out higher logic functions, or that they couldn't discover unless they went specifically looking for it. Or, having never been designed to be _pastor_-compatible, it might not have recognized John as friendly and launched its version of antispyware on him. Or it might've been infected with some sort of malware that it passed on to John's nanoids through their connection – and, if that was the case, then his connection to the city would probably pass along the virus to Atlantis too.

_Atlantis_.

Snapping his fingers, Rodney darts for the nearest computer and demands more than asks, "You've been emailing the city, haven't you." He's still a little peeved about that – Atlantis doesn't email _him_, and he's her _custodia_ – but figures it works to their advantage right now. Or, at least, isn't a disadvantage. He can ask John about the _whys_ and _wherefores_ later, after he's awake.

"Yeah."

"What's the address?"

"You're going to ask _Atlantis_ what's wrong with the Colonel?"

"You got any better ideas?"

"Well-"

"I didn't think so. Address?"

Carson tells him and, within seconds, the screen upon which John's scans had been displayed goes blank, being replaced by a few lines of Alteran that, with all the work he's done on Ancient tech by this point, Rodney's able to translate reasonably quickly. "She's saying that we activated an emergency data transfer protocol when the weapon started to overload. That it... No, that can't be right."

"What?"

Rodney doesn't know whether to laugh or not after he makes sure he's translated the last half correctly. "Basically, she's saying the computers at the outpost used the nanoids in his head like a black box, and that, as soon as she's finished downloading all the data, John'll be back to his old self."

"Really?" Carson looks a touch amused himself, if still concerned. "Any idea how long that might take?"

He sends off another email, and, in seconds, a second message appears on the display. "About thirty-five hours, give or take. It's about as fast as the process can go, with the limitations of the technology involved."

"Well," the doctor says after a moment, "I guess we'll just have to wait and see."

* * *

><p>Half the city, or so it seems, stops by to see how John's doing over the next twenty-eight hours. Rodney knows because he refuses to leave the infirmary, even after Carson reminds him that he'll be the first one he radios if there are any changes.<p>

And then Hermiod shows up.

This is pretty strange to begin with, as the Asgard rarely left the _Daedalus_ on its previous layovers here, but not entirely out of character, as he and John had struck up something of a rapport during their long journey back from Earth. No one knows quite what they talked about – John's translation matrix apparently does Asgard just as well, if not better, than English – but they seemed to have gotten along well enough. Maybe not well enough for Hermiod to show up at his sick bed, but, as it turns out, Hermiod's not there for John.

"Doctor McKay," he says without preamble, "we are going to upgrade the _Daedalus_' hyperdrive systems."

Rodney, who's been messing about on his tablet, trying to hack into John's email the old-fashioned way as he waits for John to wake up, doesn't look up when he asks, "You are?"

"You and I are, yes. Now," he adds when Rodney's not fast enough to meet his narrow-eyed, disapproving stare.

He really doesn't have a choice after that, and so he goes and _assists_ with some minor technical upgrades to the _Daedalus_ that Rodney has a feeling that Hermiod could have done in his sleep, with one hand tied behind his back. They _do, _however, prove enough of a distraction that he doesn't notice the hours pass until Carson radios to tell him that John's showing signs of waking up soon.

He's gathering his things and high-tailing it off of the engineering deck so quickly that he almost misses the harried and somewhat harassed, "You're welcome," that the Asgard offers as he's leaving.

It's enough to stop Rodney dead in his tracks. Sure, it had briefly crossed his mind that Hermiod had pulled him into this project to distract him from John's being in the infirmary, but he'd dismissed it just as quickly because, well, this is an _Asgard _he was thinking about. An alien. It was nothing short of idiocy to expect human things from them. Hell, half the time it was idiocy to expect human things from _John_, and they shared ninety-seven percent of a genome.

But still, whatever Hermiod's motivations, it appears that he's tried to do something _nice_ for him. "Thanks, Hermiod," he offers sincerely, and heads for the door before things can get any stranger.

* * *

><p>John wakes up about an hour after this. Which is to say, Rodney's succeeded in hacking into John's email account and is reading through his sister's account of the tantrum Madison had thrown when she'd realized <em>Uncle Mer and Uncle John<em> weren't going to be able to visit for a while when he looks up and sees John watching him tiredly, through half-open eyes.

"Hey there," he says, setting his tablet on a patch of empty infirmary bed and grabbing John's hand with both his own. "How you feeling?"

"Dizzy," John says, seemingly honestly, which has to say something about how bad John must be feeling. "How long have I been out?"

"Since yesterday," Rodney tells him. That's all he really means to tell him, at least until Carson has checked him out, to make sure his best insults don't go over John's head, but he can't help himself, not where John's concerned, and dives back in with, "You've any idea how worried I've been? I mean, 'Lantis _said_ you'd be okay, but she's just a city, what does she know about medicine? Granted, it's probably more than Carson does, but that doesn't exactly help when I find out that the computers on the outpost decided to use you as a backup drive before trying to kill us both. Oh, and by the way, the fact that you can apparently double as a USB in emergencies? Definitely something to have mentioned _before_ we decided to try to revolutionize energy systems engineering."

John looks equal parts amused and nauseous, and closes his eyes before he responds, somewhat sheepishly, "It's not something that comes up often," before asking if he has a pencil he can borrow.

"Of course you did," Rodney sighs, releasing John's hands so he can search through the bedside table for something John can write with, and on. It's difficult finding something, as the infirmary is almost as paperless as most of Atlantis' other departments, but he eventually succeeds, asking as he hands over his finds, "Think you can stay awake long enough for me to get Carson to check you out?"

"I'm fine, Rodney. Just tired."

Rodney looks him over dubiously. "I think we'll let the person with the medical degree decide that."

John scribbles something on the prescription pad Rodney'd found him and sighs, which quickly turns into a yawn. "Fine. But don't think I won't remember this next time you're coped up in here and wanting my help to escape. Here," he says, ripping off the pad's top sheet and handing it to Rodney.

"What's this?"

"Christmas present," he yawns, and promptly falls back asleep.

* * *

><p>John's scribble upon closer inspection turns out to be the call-index of a file his nanoids had saved from the Dorandan outpost. At first, the file appears to be little more than a series of equations relating to Project Arcturus – interesting, yes, but not something they hadn't already seen.<p>

And then Rodney makes the motherlode of all finds.

* * *

><p>"Have you dialled the SGC yet?" Rodney asks as soon as he's in Elizabeth's office, barely able to contain his grin.<p>

"It's not scheduled for another half-hour yet," she asks, looking up from her computer, where she's presumably trying to figure out how to tell the people back on Earth about the abrupt end of the human involvement in Project Arcturus without getting anyone fire, demoted, or otherwise recalled to Earth. "Why?"

"One of the files John _rescued_ from Doranda? It contains the formula for recharging ZedPMs."

* * *

><p><strong>an:** _Socii_ translates to _Allies_. For more details, timelines, translations, and whatnot, see my lj - aadarshinah(dot)livejournal(dot)com. With the (dot)'s removed, of course.


	2. Pars Dua

Socii

An Ancient!John Story

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><p><em>Pars Dua<em>

* * *

><p>"Y'know," John says causally as he leans against the door of his lab, not succeeding in startling Rodney solely by the virtue of the fact that Rodney'd happened to be pouring himself more coffee from the pot one of his minions had left for him just inside the door (as if his lab is a dragon's den rather than a place filled with things they <em>should not touch, ever<em>), "it's a good thing I love you."

It's also a good thing Rodney hadn't taken a sip of his coffee yet, 'cause otherwise it would've ended up all over the delicate pieces of equipment so feared by his minions. "How so?" he asks, managing to keep at something close to its normal tone (though he does set his coffee back on the table, to avoid any possible future incidents).

"'Cause it makes the fact that you've spent the last fourteen hours in here, working, rather than at my sickbed endearing rather than annoying."

"You were sleeping," Rodney accuses, trying not to think too hard on the _I love you_ thing. It's not like it's a surprise or anything. He and John have been together for, God, almost a year now, ever since the Genii tried to take over the city during the Storm. He knows how John feels about him and vice versa. It's just neither of them have ever said it – things that amount to it, yes, but they've somehow managed to avoid those three words. It's kind of surprising to realize, almost as surprising as it is to hear, even if it's a known fact.

John sighs, pushing himself away from the door and moving to stand a little too close for work hours in front of him. "Having a couple terabytes of data squeezed into your head and slowly dribbled out is exhausting, what can I say?"

Rodney _harrumphs_, because, honestly, it's the only thing he can think to say to that. He's just glad John's not dead, or brain dead, or otherwise impaired from the experience.

It's not until John laughs and pulls him into a tight embrace that he realizes he said all this aloud.

After a moment, though, John stops laughing and just holds him closer, burying his face in Rodney's neck. "I'm sorry I almost got you killed," he mumbles barely loud enough to be heard over the _buzz _of equipment.

This statement causes Rodney to blink once in surprise, then again in disbelief as he pulls back just enough to look John in the face. "Why on Earth are you apologizing? We almost die all the time. It's not your fault this time any more than any other. Actually, this might be the least your fault of all our near-death experiences – not that you should let that go to your head. You're still a self-sacrificing idiot who's going to get himself killed before I turn forty at the rate you're going."

"Lantea," John corrects mostly out of habit. "And that doesn't change the fact-"

He _harrumphs_ again, this time in genuine annoyance. "We did what we thought was best and nobody died. Didn't your dad drill some sort of mantra into your head about how that's a good thing?"

"Something like that," the Ancient agrees, a smile just this side of dirty sliding onto his face. "What do you say we head back to your quarters and celebrate being alive for a while?"

"Ten thousand years," he snorts, "and _that_'s the best line you can come up with?"

"Don't knock it. It works, doesn't it?"

Rodney's only response is to snort again, and let himself be pulled along.

* * *

><p>The thing is, John <em>is<em> going to get himself killed before Rodney turns forty. John has been at war with the universe since he was born, if not before, and sooner or later the universe is going to win. It is, after all, one of the few things out there older than John and, as John's occasionally fond of saying, _always place your bets on the thing that's been around the longest_.

Rodney's going to be thirty-eight next year. He's never exactly been one for the whole _carpe diem_ crap – people who subscribe to it decidedly do _not_ graduate MIT at seventeen years and fifty-three days old, let alone with a double major in physics and aeronautics/astronautics – but, with John, he can kind of get it. _John is going to get himself killed, ergo spend as much time with John as possible beforehand. _He can really get behind that one.

But still, there are, well, not rules to their relationship, but hazily-defined socio-cultural norms they try to abide by, even if it's another one of those things they've never directly come out and said to each other. They try to keep anything more intimate than a slap upside the head to off-duty hours, and don't do much more than that off-duty either if they're in one of the public areas of the city. They don't do anything to make Caldwell think they're anything other than heterosexual friends who share a love for banter, Atlantis, and SyFy, despite the fact John strongly believes the colonel couldn't care less about their bedroom activities. And, perhaps most importantly, when one of them is working on something important – like, say, defending the city from invading Wraith or slugging their say through a deceptively simple formula for recharging the ZedPMs – they don't interrupt each other for anything short of vital emergencies.

As much as they both would much rather think otherwise, quickies are _not_ emergencies, and so it's with a sheepish, somewhat guilty feeling Rodney sneaks out of his quarters afterwards, leaving John (unsurprisingly) asleep inside. It's his intention to work twice as hard as he already has been (and maybe even call in Zelenka to help, despite the fact that Caldwell has asked to keep thisscientific discovery between himself, Rodney, John, and Elizabeth until they have a better idea if it works or not, to avoid getting everyone's hopes up again so soon) when he gets back to his lab.

He's already lost in the equations before he makes it as far as the transporter around the corner, which probably explains how me manages to run into Cadman there. Well, that and the fact that the Lieutenant has Ford's old quarters, the one's at the far end of the hall. Despite that, however, he's been mostly able to avoid her by the sheer fact she maintains a fairly predictable schedule. It must be later than he thought if he's running into her now.

She seems to know this, and smirks at him as she waves her hand in front of the transporter door controls. "Hey Rodney."

"Cadman," he says stiffly.

"How's the Colonel?"

"Fine."

"Is that so?"

Rodney doesn't answer, trying not to bristle too overtly at her words (she can't have meant anything by it; she can't possibly know that John's tangled up in his sheets, in _his_ bed right now rather than his own; she just can't, despite the lateness of the hour), and practically jumps out of the transporter when it deposits him by his lab. Still, he can practically _hear_ the smugness in her tone as she calls out, "Bye Rodney," before pressing the controls for her own destination.

Except, of course, the transporter refuses to go anywhere. It's doors won't even close.

Rodney looks up at the ceiling and only just manages to stop himself from asking the city why she hates him so aloud. Maybe his _spend as much time with John as possible_ plan is backfiring if he's starting to pick up his foibles. God knows he already has enough of his own to wrestle with.

More importantly, however, he has Laura Cadman to contend with at the moment and should probably get her on her way before he gives too much thought to his flaws of character – there's always a danger that some lingering connection from their brief body-sharing experience has lingered, unnoticed, and she'll pick up on them (his thoughts, that is) even if she's not consciously aware of what's happening. Last thing he needs is to give yet more ammunition to the ladies of Girls' Poker Night.

"I'll get my repair kit," Rodney sighs instead and heads for his lab, only mildly surprised to see Colonel Caldwell already there, fiddling with one of his computers as he waits. He dimly remembers that he's supposed to be updating him and Elizabeth at regular intervals, but he hadn't thought it was _that _late yet, even if he had run into Cadman at the transporter. "I've not made a lot of progress so far, but if you give me like three seconds, I need to-"

And that's when Rodney notices that Caldwell's not just playing solitaire or paging through one of Rodney's files there, he's _downloading _it all. "Hey, what-?" he begins, thinking the worst – that maybe Elizabeth and Caldwell have decided to entrust someone else with the ZedPM research after his the incident on Doranda, that maybe he's being sent back to Earth-

-and then Caldwell's eyes flash.

The goa'uld have infiltrated Atlantis.

* * *

><p>What follows next, Rodney never clearly remembers. All he knows is that, at some point, Cadman comes in to ask what's taking so long to find him spraying a can of solvent into the Colonel's eyes. He assumes there was the usual <em>worship me and I might not kill you<em> pontificating that the goa'uld usually get up to and some less-than-diplomatic refusal on his part that led to that point, but, like Rodney said, he's not really sure.

It's not exactly his finest moment.

* * *

><p>"So, Caldwell's a goa'uld," John's saying forty minutes later, after Cadman's subdued Caldwell (she shoots him three times, then uses a malfunctioning piece of Ancient tech as a taser, which knocks him out long enough for her to call in reinforcements; it's equally parts very cool and incredibly scary) and the Marines have taken him to the isolation room. "Huh."<p>

"I never suspected..." Elizabeth murmurs, looking oddly stricken as she turns away from the glass.

The game plan is apparently 1) remove bullets, 2) question goa'uld-Caldwell; 3) remove goa'uld from Caldwell, though the first part appears to be particularly slow going for no reason Rodney cares to find out. He has the start of a massive headache, and, 'sides, medicine's nothing but voodoo anyway. Particularly Carson's brand of it.

Ronan too looks unimpressed and slumps onto one of the nearby couches, not even pretending to look at the monitors. "What's a goa'uld?"

"Only an alien parasite that can likes to wrap itself around people's brain stems and take over their bodies."

"That doesn't sound pleasant."

"It isn't," John says, cocking his head to the side as he watches the goings-on down below. He's oddly awake for a man who's spent the better part of three days in a near-coma. "I've read enough SG mission reports to know I want nothing to do with them, and that was before I asked 'Lantis to look up what we had on them in the database."

Moderately surprised, "There's stuff on the goa'uld in the Ancient database?" Rodney asks. He'd rather thought the Ancients were before their time.

"There's something on everything in the database. Or so I'm told."

"No late nights combing through the database as a kid then?"

"Only the _F_'s."

It takes Rodney a moment, then he groans, asking, "Why am I not surprised?" as he collapses into his own chair.

"I don't get it."

"Trust me," Rodney says, turning towards Ronan with a very put-upon expression on his face, "you don't want to."

Elizabeth, however, knows almost as much Alteran as Rodney does, and only takes a little longer to recall the only word starting with _F_ that might interest an Alteran boy, and, sounding a lot more like herself, admonishes, "Gentlemen, if we could get back on track for a moment? What are we going to do about this situation?"

"Well," John drawls, "I've already placed the city on lockdown, and ordered everyone from the _Daedalus_ confined in the mess until we can get them under the scanner. Carson's people have already cleared Lorne, and I've got him organizing teams to search the city for any obvious signs of sabotage.

"Oh, and 'Lantis hasn't noticed anyone messing with her coding, but I'd like Rodney and Zelenka to check her out as soon as possible."

Elizabeth looks mildly impressed. "Looks like you've got this pretty much taken care of, Colonel."

He shrugs, "It's no problem. 'Sides, I thought there was something off about Caldwell."

She blinks. So does Rodney. Ronan, however, looks like he might be asleep. "Really?" she asks.

"Yeah. But I thought it was 'cause he's human, not 'cause, y'know, he'd a snake in his head." He shrugs again, raising his hand halfway through the motion to answer his radio. "Sheppard here." he tells whoever is on the other end, "Yeah. I'll be right there... Anyway, the _Daedalus_' XO is demanding some explanations, so I better go before we add mutiny to the list of today's Lantean firsts. Call me when he's ready for questioning."

Rodney and Elizabeth remain blinking at each other for several minutes. Then, "Just when I think," she says, "I get a handle on the Pegasus galaxy, it goes and throws a day like this at us." Then she starts laughing and only stops herself when it starts to give way to tears.

* * *

><p>It occurs to Rodney that night, in that long dark stretch between midnight on the Terran clock and midnight on the Lantean, when no amount of coffee could keep you awake if you weren't completely and totally immersed in your work, that Elizabeth is the most competent, brilliant person he's ever worked for. Yes, she sometimes makes mistakes, but she does the best she can with the information she's been given, and gives her all to the city with a level of self-less dedication that borders on even John's extreme.<p>

It also occurs to Rodney he'd be exactly like her – lonely as hell and living only for his work – if he'd never met the Ancient named Iohannes Ianideus Licinus Pastor, who's changed his life in so many ways that it would take another lifetime still to list them all.

* * *

><p>Rodney goes out of his way to track John the next day. Even then, though, he doesn't find him until about half-an-hour before they're all supposed to be in the conference room, to go over what their teams have found out about the goa'uld in Caldwell and what it might've done to the city, and that's only because he checks the office John hardly ever uses on the off chance the Ancient might actually be there.<p>

John's sitting at his desk, scowling at his laptop, when he comes in and is immersed enough in his work that he doesn't realize he's no longer alone until Rodney asks, "What on Earth are you doing here? I thought you hated this place."

It's true, too. The office had once been John's _praetor_'s, which meant it was the rough equivalent of General Landry's offices back at the SGC, albeit sightly larger and with a rather more interesting decorating scheme. John hates it because it feels pretentious, despite the fact that, as the military commander of Atlantis, it's his by right.

"Lantea," John corrects around a yawn. "And I kept falling asleep when I tried to do this in my quarters. Can't fall asleep here. I still feel like Gulcherius Col is going to jump out of the woodwork at any minute and demand to know what I'm doing in his office."

Rodney can only roll his eyes, even if it always causes something to clench in his stomach every time John mentions his life Before. He's gotten good at ignoring that by now, and manages to keep his voice steady and even when he asks, "What's so important that it can't wait an hour for you to take a nap? It's another month until our next dial-in to Earth, and it's not like you're going to chew yourself out for not getting your paperwork turned in on time."

"It's my write up of what I learned from Caldwell's goa'uld. It calls itself Zu, by the way, and works for something call the Trust, but other than that, I got a whole lot of nothing out of him. It. Whatever. I don't think it had time to do much more then that, though."

"I didn't find any signs of tampering either," Rodney says, closing the office door behind him.

John just raises his eyebrow – at the door-closing, he thinks, and not the lack of tampering – and says, "Speaking of dialling Terra, did you email Jeannie for me while I was in the infirmary? You know she'll panic if she doesn't hear anything from us. I thinks she thinks we're in the middle of some war or something on your planet, and, like you said, it's another month 'til our next dial-in."

"I did," he sighs. "Even got Carson to give me some kid-friendly options of what Jeannie can pick up the brat for us. Though you do realize Madison's just three and won't remember if she doesn't get a Christmas present from us, right?"

"She'll be four next month. And that's not the point."

"And what, pray tell, is?"

"She's a good kid. She misses us. If getting her a present as part of some bizarre Terran holiday will make her happy and help her remember her uncles care for her even if we can't be there all the time, what's the problem with that?"

"There's no problem, it's just..." Rodney doesn't know what it is, really. It's just all so _domestic_, them arguing over what to get his niece for Christmas and John saving the last muffin for him on mornings when he wakes up late, and he's still not sure how they got to this point, only that they have and it's amazing and exhilarating and a little bit frighting to think about and he thinks that most people who've been together for almost a year aren't so at ease with each other, let alone their extended families, but it's so _them_ and Rodney doesn't know what he'll do if he ever looses this, which he inevitably will because John isn't John, some lieutenant colonel from Sausalito, he's just an Ancient with different priorities than anyone else alive who just so happens to answer to the name John Sheppard and likes to pretend he's nothing more than a simple, rakishly-haired American Air Force officer.

"Rodney?" John prompts after what must have been a long silence. He's rising from his chair, looking more concerned than the situation really warrants, and it's all too much, and words just burst out-

"I love you, you know that, right?"

John's expression shifts from concern to genuine worry, which isn't exactly the reaction Rodney's been hoping for. "Of course I do, Rodney."

"It's just, I realized the other day that I'd never said it, and wanted to make sure you knew."

"Rodney," the Ancient says, oddly serious as he steps out from behind his desk, "I'm hell of a lot worse with feelings and things than you are, and you know how much I care for you, right?"

"Right, I just-"

"Then believe me when I say that I don't care how long it takes you to tell me you love me, or if you never do. I already know it, and don't want you saying it just because I did and you feel like you have to, oh, I dunno, return the sentiment or something."

Frustrated now, "It's not like that. You know it's not. It's just, like I said, I realized I never said it, and I don't know why that is, but I should've done it earlier and now I have, and now can we just forget all this," he gestures at the space between him, "'cause things are starting to get a little too after-school special here."

For some reason, John starts to laugh at this, his whole face breaking into one of the most genuine smiles Rodney's ever seen before he slings an arm over his shoulder and says, "Sure thing, buddy," before dragging him out of the office and towards the conference room, a warm, fuzzy feeling he'll never admit to rising in his stomach.

* * *

><p>They never make it to Elizabeth's meeting.<p>

That's not their fault, though – it's Chuck's, because just as they walk into the Control Room the technician says, "I was just about to radio for you, sirs. We've got a situation."

John immediately tenses. "What kind of situation?"

"A hyperspace window just opened on the edge of the system. We're tracking a ship. A large one. From what we can tell, doesn't appear to conform to any known Wraith _or_ goa'uld designs."

Rodney feels his blood run cold. "Are they broadcasting an IFF?" he asks, practically shoving another tech out of the way so he can look at the data on their computer.

"They are," John says, just as Rodney's about to ask if he wants to head up to the Chair Room while he gets the cloak in place.

"How can you tell?" one of the newer gate techs asks. Actually, it's a question Rodney wants to ask too – John may be a _pastor_, but he can't pick up radio signals with his nanoids any more than anyone else can, and they're definitely not picking up anything.

John just grins and starts to walk over to the Gate Room stairs as the space in front of the Stargate is suffused in bright white light. "Someone radio Elizabeta? Tell her the Asgard have decided to visit Atlantis."


	3. Pars Tria

_Socii_

An Ancient!John Story

* * *

><p><em>Pars Tria<em>

* * *

><p>"What?" Rodney snaps, blindly reaching for his coffee as he tries to work his way through the equations John had found for him relating to recharging ZedPMs. A second hard look through them has proven that the equations are only half-completed – or, at least, written with several steps missing, which, while perfectly fine for Alitia Agnis Perita, whose work notebook they had been salvaged from, is more than a little bothersome for those trying to recreate them ten thousand years later.<p>

John sighs as he slinks further into the lab – or, at least, that's what Rodney assumes he's doing by the sound of it. He doesn't actually look up until John's right next to him, leaning against a stretch of not-so-cluttered work desk and raising an eyebrow smugly at him. "I _said _that, since Carson says Colonel Caldwell's up for it, I'm going to be doing a walking tour of Atlantis in twenty minutes, and asked if you wanted to tag along."

He blinks once at this, then, "Did Elizabeth put you up to this?"

It's the Ancient's turn to blink then, features slipping into a mask of confusion. "No?"

"So you're doing something nice for the anthropologists because you _want_ to?"

"What?" John starts, quickly adding, "No. No anthropologists. No anthropology. Not that kind of walking tour at all."

"Good," Rodney tells him, genuinely relieved. "I was starting to think you were developing a terminal case of Christmas spirit. You haven't seen my coffee have you?"

He can hear John's eyebrow going up as he glances about the lab, than points to a spot directly behind where Rodney's currently sitting. "It's one thing to turn tolerate the holiday for the sake of morale. It's another thing entirely to put up with anthropologists because of it."

"I guess it's a good thing I put your name on the things I got people then," Rodney snorts, turning around to discover that, yes, that is the cup was using perched atop what he's been assuming to be is a broken Ancient music box. "How did that get over there?"

"I dunno. And, you did?"

Rodney pauses in lifting the rediscovered cup to his mouth just long enough to frown at the Colonel and point out, "I'm not nearly as heartless as people seem to think. And only for, you know, Elizabeth and Carson and the team. Oh, and Radek, but his is mostly just so I don't have to hear him go on about how I don't _appreciate him as a fellow scientist_ again. I mean, don't get me wrong, I'd rather have him keeping an eye on things here when I can't, but you'd think that allowing him to do that in the first place would be appreciation enough..."

"Don't worry," John says placatingly, "I promise I won't tell any of your scientists that you're just a big softie underneath all the bluster."

His eyes narrow involuntarily. "You wouldn't dare."

John just laughs.

"Fine, but if you say anything to my minions, I'll tell your Marines about how your fondness for Russian literature."

He snorts this time. "Lorne paints in his free time and Cadman does something called yoga. I don't think the Marines will care if I read a few Terran books."

"The only _Earth_ books I've seen you read have been Russian, which are possibly the most depressing and confusing books ever written. Nothing but long, involved stories of failed love affairs and suffering as a means of redemption."

"We named it first," John says, completely ignoring the last.

"And we live there. We win, six billion or so to one."

"Whatever," he says, sounding more Valley girl than ten-thousand-year-old alien. One of these days, he really needs to ask John about that. After he figures out the ZedPM recharging problem. "You want to come along or not?"

"Depends. What kind of _walking tour_ is it then, if it's not _top ten places in Atlantis to see before you die_, and what chance is there of getting coffee at the end of it?"

"It's a _talk to Beckett about the goa'uld he took out of Caldwell, visit the Asgard in section seventy-three, ask you how the ZPM stuff is going, then break for lunch before dialling the SGC and telling them all about it_ kind of walking tour."

"So, basically, what you normally spend all day doing, only with other people involved."

"Yes, that's it exactly," John says in the driest tone possible. "So, coming?"

"Eh, why not?" he says, saving his work and closing his laptop. "I'm kinda curious about what's got the Asgard so excited they'd travel nearly five million light years to get their hands on it, even with hyperdrive technology."

"That's the spirit."

"So, what you got for us, Doc?"

Carson looks up from his microscope, saying, "Not much, I'm afraid," before turning to Rodney with a suspiciously large grin. "So, what's the special occasion?"

Rodney blinks at him, then at John, who shrugs from the perch he's taken on the nearest infirmary bed. "Come again?"

"John's usually alone when he pops by on his rounds of the city."

"John also usually doesn't plan on visiting the Asgard after we're done here either, so there you go."

"Oh," Carson says a little sadly – not much, but enough that even Rodney notices it and thinks it odd.

"Why?"

"Hmm?"

"Why do you think it should count as a _special occasion_ that I'm tagging along on one of his walkabouts? I've seen Lorne on them before." Actually, now that he thinks about it, Lorne's just about the only other person he's ever seen tag along on one of these things, and Rodney's not entirely sure whether the Major does it 'cause he wants to or if it's just to keep John apprised of the official running-of-the-battalion things John, being John, could really care less about.

Before the doctor can say anything, John snorts. "It's his week in the pool."

Honest to God, Rodney actually thinks they're talking about a pool, with water and chlorine and microbacteria and whatnot. And then he remembers that he's living on what is essentially the universe's most remote forward operating base with Marines and _children_. "You didn't."

Carson dithers.

"Oh my God, you did. You placed a bet about us in one of Zelenka's ridiculous pools. And you call yourself our friend!"

"Oh, relax Rodney. It's nae but some light-hearted fun."

"Plus," John says, seemingly utterly unperturbed by this information, "they've got some pretty good stuff in there by this point. Having the _Daedalus_ around to regularly bring supplies really ups the bar on what people are willing to bet about these things. The one for when we first got together has something like five hundred dollars in it, plus enough coffee and chocolate to keep _you_ happy for a month. And you don't even _want_ to know what's in a couple of the less PG pools."

"How do you know what's been bet?" Carson asks, forgetting his embarrassment at being caught for long enough to be genuinely curious. "Radek guards that notebook fiercer than my dear mother guards her quiche recipe."

"Forget that, what do you mean _less PG pools_?"

"Oh, y'know, who goes where when we have sex and the like... But you'd be surprised what people leave lying about when they think you can't understand them."

Rodney gapes at him, wordlessly, for nearly a minute before he can say anything. (In his defence, Carson's doing much the same – and it is some comfort, at least, that the good doctor appears not to have known or, God forbid, _participated_ in that one. But still.)

"I'm sorry, but you _know_ about betting pools like that and you _let them continue_?"

John shrugs, "What does it matter?"

"_What does it matter?_" Rodney repeats. "Tell me, in what universe does it _not_ matter that people – more specifically, members of this Expedition, who, by default, can only be one of our _subordinates_ – are _speculating about our sex life_?"

"It's not like they're hurting anybody."

"That's not the point."

"It's not?"

The honest query causes his anger to deflate somewhat. "Look, if it's all the same with you, I'd rather _not_ have people betting about where our dicks go, okay? So, please, do something about it and never, _ever_ mention it again?"

John cocks his head to the side at this and appears to think about it. "Sure thing."

"Thanks," Rodney says with a truly grateful sigh. Then, "I thought Zelenka shut down his black market after we got back in contact with Earth."

"Nope."

"That still," Carson protests, his voice finally seeming to have returned, "doesnae explain how you know about the bets, Colonel."

"I happened to... overhear... Doctor Kantor placing her bet with Radek."

It takes him a moment, but, "Wait, isn't she the German oceanographer the _Daedalus _brought on it's last run?" At John's nod, he continues, "The one who McNabb insisted we needed for their research on M8R-169 that it doesn't matter that her English is about as good as my German?"

"Ah, but _Radek_ speaks German."

"So?"

"You'll be surprised what you can learn when people don't think you can understand them," he says mysteriously before looking at his watch and asking, "So where is Caldwell anyway? He's the one who wanted to tag along in the first place, and he's late."

It's apparent that John's got no wish to elaborate on his intentionally cryptic statement (though Rodney's thinking _updated translation matrix_, particularly as he's fairly certain the copy of _War and Peace_ he's seen him reading is a Russian-language copy underneath a translation's dust jacket), so Rodney decides to shelf that one for the moment and grouse instead, "Oh, yes, because you've such a tight schedule to keep."

John raises an eyebrow at this.

Rodney just rolls his eyes at him. Well, he also steps closer to the infirmary bed John's perched on, with the intention of slapping him upside the head next time he decides he wants to say something annoying like _oh, by the way, our subordinates are speculating about our sex lives for money_.Ho doesn't get the chance though, as Colonel Caldwell takes this opportunity to appear from whatever corner he's been hiding in.

"Sorry for the delay," he says. "Doctor Weir wished to clarify some things before we started and time got away from us."

John's eyes shutter at _clarify_, but Rodney thinks he's the only one who notices, particularly with the way John turns up the charm after this comment, as if Caldwell is some native chieftain they have to deal with in order to see the sacred temple rather than, well, the closest thing to a commanding officer John's likely to ever have in this galaxy.

"No problem. Happens to me all the time," John says with a wry smile before turning to Carson, clapping his hands together, and asking, "So, Doc, learn anything interesting from our goa'uld friend?"

"Like I said, nae much. I ran it underneath the Ancient scanner, but it didn't tell us anything we hadn't already learned about goa'uld physiology. I also too the opportunity to run a genetic profile on it, but without access to those that the SGC has run on the goa'uld they've had access to, I canae tell you more than it's a goa'uld, an a young one at that. Colonel Caldwell here was probably it's first host."

"Lovely," Caldwell says dryly.

"Well, it's better than nothing," John says, hopping off the infirmary bed. "I figure we'll be at the _porta_ in about two hours, so..."

"My report's already on the server, waiting for the dial-up."

"Cool. Well, I promised Rodney we'd go see the Asgard, so we better get to it before before he turns into a pumpkin or something."


	4. Pars Quattor

_Socii_

An Ancient!John Story

* * *

><p><em>Pars Quattor<em>

* * *

><p>Despite the fact that their ship, <em>Muspelheim<em>, could easily hold the _Daedalus_ five times over, it has apparently only brought three Asgard to Atlantis. Two of them, Sigyn and Hemidall, are geneticists, and, jointly, the heads of what John's taken to calling _Project Ragnarök_, which is the Asgard's attempt to repair the damages several thousand generations of cloning having done to their genome. The last is none other than Thor, the Supreme Commander of the Asgard Fleet, who seems to be here in more of an engineering capacity than any formal, diplomatic capacity.

But whatever. Rodney could really care less about who the Asgard are, even if Sigyn is the first he's ever met with a female personality. He's mostly just interested in what they're doing, which, as John keeps saying obliquely, is _trying to save the Asgard race_.

"So," John says when they're finally – _finally_ – in the lab in section seventy-three, leaning against a dead control panel, "quick history of this place: sixty-five million years or so ago, the people you came to think of as _Ancients_ were on the loosing side of a war with the _H__aeretici_. Being consummate cowards, they eventually decided to leave the home galaxy in what _lintres_ and _urbes-naves_ they had left, Atlantis being one of them."

"_Haeretici,"_ Caldwell repeats, butchering the word. "You mean the Ori, right?"

"Before they Ascended," Rodney confirms, before gesturing at John impatiently and saying, "But what does that have to do with this place and saving the Asgard race?"

"We got paranoid. Keyed all our tech to our genetic code, but-"

"-but," Rodney finishes for him, feeling his eyes go wide as he takes in the room they're in once more, suddenly understanding what this place is for and what the Asgard might want with it, "your genetic code was the same as your enemy's, so the only way that would work would be to change your own."

"Bingo."

"That's just..." he says excitedly, rushing over to examine the nearest of the twenty or so devices that line the room, looking more like oversized water-coolers than medical equipment. Hemidall (or, at least, he _thinks_ it's Hemidall) is currently interfacing the device with an Asgard computer and gives him a sour look at the interruption,"it must have taken _generations – _unless there are more labs like this one in the city?"

Shaking his head, John replies, "This is the only one in the city," not bothering to hide his amused smile. He's about to go on – perhaps, if looks are anything to judge by, ask him if it had been worth the wait to see this place-

-but then Caldwell interrupts, sounding oddly like Elizabeth when he asks, "Gentleman, if you don't mind explaining what's so fascinating?"

"The ATA gene's artificial."

Caldwell frowns. "I thought Doctor Beckett's gene therapy activated dormant genes in those who receive it."

"Yeah. _His_ gene therapy does, but what John's saying is that the Ancients didn't just choose random, pre-existing genes to bind their technology to, they _wrote them into their genetic code_."

"And what does that have to do with this room?"

"_Because_," Rodney says, impatience tinging his excitement as he pulls out his own tablet and begins trying to interface it with the machine next to Hemidall's, "you can't just go about adding genes to an adult's DNA and expect things to work out. The human body just doesn't work that way."

"What Doctor McKay is attempting to explain," the one he's fairly certain is Sigyn interrupts, apparently having tired of trying to work while they were carrying on in the background, "is that the Ancients eugenically modified their own population several times. This lab was a key component of the earliest and most extreme incidences, whereby those lived within Atlantis surrendered their reproductive rights to the state. All of the children born during this period were genetically engineered to carry what you call the _Ancient Technology Activation gene_. The majority of these embryos were transferred into the female genetic donor as blastocysts, but some – approximately ten to fifteen percent – were carried to term artificially in these devices. I believe you would call them _extra-uterine foetal incubators_."

"Extra-uterine incubators. You mean artificial wombs?"

"Indeed, Colonel Caldwell," she agrees. "While we have technology that operates on a similar premise for maturing our clones, the methodology behind the Ancients' technology is entirely different. It is our hope that, by modifying the devices, we will be able to create Asgard capable of sexual reproduction and, thusly, save our race from extinction."

_This_ causes Rodney to pause in what he's doing (which, at this moment, is basically downloading the incubator's schematics). He wants to save the Asgard race – they're not _bad_ people, even if they _are_ arrogant bastards who had only the thinnest grasp on the meaning of words like _manners _and _allies_ – but the very last thing he wants to ever think about is Asgard sex.

He glances at John – only briefly, as Hemidall is between them, and Rodney doesn't trust himself to keep a straight face for that long – and sees even he looks a little put off by the idea.

Caldwell, though, seems to be made of tougher stuff, and asks without seeming to consider it's... frightening... implications, "And you think these incubators will do the trick?"

"We are hopeful. But the devices are very old, even by Ancient standards, and have been poorly maintained."

"We only really used these right after the _Schisma_," he can practically hear John shrug. "Or, at least, that's what 'Lantis says. I only know about this place 'cause I stumbled across it when I was ten or eleven or so, and even then I hadn't thought this place still existed. Many sections of the city were abandoned long before we left Avalon, and most of those were scavenged to death for spare parts after the Siege started, or before then, back during the Plague, when we were pretty much grasping a straws trying to cure it..."

Hemidall, who must have better multitasking skills than his colleague, nods knowingly at this. "I had the opportunity to visit Atlantis shortly before it left Earth, and, as I recall, even then many parts of the city were in disrepair. I always thought the situation quite unfortunate, and await the day that you are able to restore it back to it's previous glory."

Rodney blinks. He'd known cloning was able to extend the Asgard lifespan considerably, but for Hemidall to have visited the city before, he'd have to be even older than John. Idly, he wonders how many clone bodies the geneticist might have gone through in ten thousand plus years, but for the most part keeps his attention on the diagrams flashing up on his screen.

(If he's reading them correctly – which he is because he's the smartest man in two galaxies – Rodney thinks they're not just incubators: no, these machines do the whole she-bang, from collecting the donor's genetic material – luckily, only blood samples – and doing whatever genetic engineering is needed through to childbirth.)

Still, despite his distraction, he can hear John beaming at the Asgard scientist. "So does 'Lantis. She's been planning how she's going to redecorate practically since we regained contact with Terra."

"I admit to a certain fascination with the Ancient practice of modifying certain members of their population with nanomachines for the express purpose of communing with the artificial intelligences that ran their cities, particularly given your reticence towards other forms of technological augmentation."

"If I remember correctly, the Asgard were never big on mechanical modifications either."

If Hemidall had had a proper nose, Rodney thinks he would've wrinkled it. "While it is true we had considered such things once, I believe our interactions with the Furlings proved this an unwise course of action."

It's John's turn to nod, Rodney can see from the corner of his eye. "Yeah, well, back to the _incubti_: any chance of making them actually work?"

"Yes."

Sigyn huffs at this and (possibly, it's hard to tell with Asgard) glares at Hemidall. _"Possibly._ The machines are old and may not be able to be returned to full functionality. Even then, it is uncertain whether the organic interface we use in place of a placenta for growing our clones will be able to function properly within the incubators, or, if we are able to replicate the inorganic medium they appear to have been designed to use for the same purpose, if Asgard embryos will be able to thrive within it.

"While we are likely to be able to work past these problems, the fact remains that these devices were designed with the sole aim of modifying the Ancients' genome into what it is today. I am uncertain the alterations we will need to make for our purposes will allow for anywhere near the same functionality, or success rate."

"However," Hemidall adds, "these incubators are still the best chance we have yet found towards saving our race from extinction."

"That's good to hear," Caldwell says honestly, but before he can say more Sigyn interrupts, saying-

"There is only a seventeen point twelve percent chance of success," in the haughtiest, most contemptuous way he's ever heard from an Asgard (and Rodney's worked with _a lot_ of Asgard). Even Hemidall seems surprised by it, because it causes him to say something to her in their native tongue that, despite his inability to understand, can only be a telling-off. Either way, it causes Sigyn to retreat to the far corner of the room, muttering darkly under her breath.

Hemidall takes the Asgard equivalent of a deep breath and, rather gently, says, "I apologize for Sigyn. She has been working on our cloning problem for almost three thousand years – since long before it became as extreme as it is now. I fear she has become disheartened at our prospects for survival, particularly in light of what she views as overly stringent sanctions on our research. She, however, has always been careful to stay within the High Council's strictures, so there is no need to be unduly concerned."

"Hey, as long as no one gets cloned against their will, more power to you. Well," John claps his hands together, "I dunno about you, Colonel, but all this science talk is starting to make my head spin, so I'm thinking lunch, then _how to recharge a ZPM in five easy steps_, then the dial-in to Terra."

* * *

><p><strong>an:** Sigyn in Norse mythology was Loki's wife. Hemidall was a god of knowledge.


	5. Pars Quinque

Socii

An Ancient!John Story

* * *

><p><em>Pars Quinque<em>

* * *

><p>"I'm going to need approximately eighty feet of thirty-two gauge copper wire, maybe half a kilogram of oxypnictide – something lanthanum-based preferably, but I won't say no to something with samarium if Area 51 can spare any, - and the best clean room we can build as far from from any of the city's power conduits as is both possible and practical," Rodney announces as he enters Elizabeth's office, completely not caring that he's probably interrupted some big, important meeting between herself, John, and Colonel Caldwell regarding the city's defences. Or something else equally important but less interesting than what he's been working on since mid-December.<p>

"What?"

"Copper wire. Oxypnictide. Clean room. Things I need," Rodney repeats at Elizabeth's bewildered expression. "Oh, and I'll have to borrow the charged ZedPM we already have for a couple hours, but that probably won't be for a couple weeks yet."

"Yes, I got that much," Elizabeth says. "But what you haven't said is _why_ you need them."

"To recharge the ZedPMs, of course."

There's a beat when both Elizabeth and Caldwell stare at him blankly before the Colonel, quickly regathering his wits, asks, "You completed the equations then?"

"Yes – two days ago, actually." He frowns. "Didn't John tell you?"

John holds up both of his hands in what is surely meant to be a placating gesture, "I was going mention it after the outcome of the Asgard's latest genetic trials."

"Really?" Rodney asks, momentarily distracted, "How's that going?"

"They managed to get one of their modified zygotes to survive for all of twelve hours before the _incubtum_ declared it inviable and aborted it. Heimdall considers it progress."

"Huh. That's... moderately disturbing, actually."

John shrugs, "The Asgard are the Asgard. Trying to judge them by human – or Alteran – terms is pointless and hurts everyone involved."

"And yet," Elizabeth says, eyes crinkling with amusement, "I seem to recall you saying just the other day that _descendants are weird."_

"Ninety-seven percent shared genome, ninety-seven percent judgement," John says evenly. "But, yeah, Rodney finished The Dorandan Equations two days ago-"

"The Dorandan Equations?"

"It's what he's calling the equations we found for recharging the Zero Point Modules," Rodney tells Caldwell. "Because, apparently, we can't just go around calling them the _ZedPM recharge equations_ for the rest of our lives, or, God forbid, _name_ them after the person who's spent the better part of the last three weeks slaving away at them to make a full proof out of half a page of somebody's hastily scribbled notes."

"Well, if you can think of a name for them that doesn't take almost as long to say as they do to solve, you can call them whatever you want. But _I_ like _The Dorandan Equations_ and _I'm_ the one with final naming say-so, so... _The Dorandan Equations_ they'll remain."

Rodney harrumphs at this, but sinks down on to the couch next to him without further comment.

"Anyway, like I was saying, Rodney finished the equations a couple of days ago, and Doctor Zelenka and I have gone over them so many times I swear I'm starting to see them every time I close my eyes, but there's nothing in the maths that say they won't work, and Radek says the same about the science, so..." He pokes Rodney in the leg, possibly as a cue for him to take up the explanations.

Before he can say anything, however, Elizabeth does, repeating, "_You_'ve been over the math?" in a tone of such disbelief that he can't keep from snorting.

"Don't let the hair fool you," he tells her, "John's a mathematical genius."

Smirking now, "Is that so?"

"Yeah," Rodney says as John groans, slumping further down into the couch, as if doing so would render him deaf to the conversation going on around him. "He solved the Riemann Hypothesis between debriefings while we back on Earth 'cause he was _bored_. Actually," Rodney glances at his watch, "the USAF Publishing Directorate put out his monograph last Monday. So, unless the CMI and IMU really drag their heels, we'll probably need to find a way for us to be back on Earth for most of next December for the award ceremonies."

Elizabeth blinks at him.

"The Riemann Hypothesis is – or, rather, was – widely regarded as the most important unsolved problem in speculative mathematics in modern history. It's on both the Clay Mathematics Institute's list of Millennium Prize Problems _and_ Hilbert's list of unsolved mathematical problems from the turn of the last century. Basically, the only way he's not going to win a Fields Medal for this is if someone starts looking too closely into the background the SGC made up for him, and the awards ceremony is right before Christmas, so..."

"Why, John, I didn't know you were into math."

"Father's version of parenting was to act like I was one of his research assistants," John says with minimal emotion, staring rather sightlessly at one of the figurines on Elizabeth's desk. "When I was young, he'd give me equations to solve while he went off to his lab. When I got older, he'd have me crunch numbers for whatever project he was working on at the time. Can't say much of the science stuck, but..." he trailed off with a _what can you do_ sort of shrug.

"Well, be that as it may..."

"Yes, yes," Rodney breaks in quickly, diverting the conversation before they can get bogged down in the trials and travails of John's childhood, which he knows John won't appreciate, "while we could spend all day trying to reconcile John's brain with the rest of him, how about we concentrate on _my_ genius for the moment, which, while already assured, has reached entirely new heights with these Dorandan Equations."

"Go ahead, Rodney," Elizabeth says, smiling slightly, "astound us."

"Well, you know how we've always pretty much thought the ZedPMs were miniature universes in a bottle?"

"Yeah."

"Well, turns out we were wrong – or, rather, _mostly_ wrong. Thank God too, or else we'd never be able to recharge them."

Sitting (if possible) a little bit straighter at this, "What are they then?" Colonel Caldwell asks.

"Essentially?" he says, whipping out his tablet and using it to pull up a schematic of the device they'll have to build to recharge the ZedPMs on the large monitor in the corner of Elizabeth's office. It looks a little like a wood lathe with a coil of wires where the dowel would normally go, but Rodney's not going to let looks get in the way of what represents the biggest step forward for humanity since Sam's dialling program for the Stargate. "That, while the Zero Point Modules still draw power from a region of subspace that is otherwise unable to interact with space-time as we know it, instead of, well, _containing_ said region as we've always thought, it _connects_ our universe to a region of subspace _inside another universe entirely_."

"So you're saying what, exactly? That there's a wormhole to a parallel universe inside each and every ZPM?"

"In layman's terms? Yes. Though, rather than _parallel_ universes, like we've seen with the quantum mirror on Earth, we're talking about completely _different_ universes entirely, ones which have no connection to our own other than through the the ZedPM." Ones which, rather than sharing a common history, are lucky to share common laws of physics. It's a subtle difference, but an important one.

"So how's this important?"

"It means that when a Zero Point Module looses it's charge, it's not the Zero Point Module _itself_ that becomes inert, just the region of subspace in the universe it's connected to. The wormhole connecting them is still active – well, technically, it's a white hole, but, for the sake of this conversation-"

"The point, Rodney," John reminds him, leaning forward to prop his elbows on his knees and his chin on his fists, somehow managing to look not so much bored by the proceedings as mildly nostalgic. Granted, from what little John was willing to share about his childhood, most of it probably _had_ been spent listening to scientists of one sort or another talk to each other about things far over his head. But still. Weird.

"Yes, right," he says quickly, blinking to try and rid himself of his John-filled thoughts. "The point is, if we can direct the right amount of charge to the right part of the ZedPM, we can make the wormhole inside _jump_, more or less, to a different region of subspace, most likely in third universe entirely. Regardless, it'll be a region of subspace rife with zero point energy."

Elizabeth seems to muse on this for a moment. Then, "What's the catch?"

"Er, well, to make the wormhole jump, we've got to set up a superconducting magnet around the ZedPM. It shouldn't be difficult, but the possibility – the very small-"

"One point four percent," John offers, grinning for some strange, unknown reason of his own.

Rodney glares at him while continuing emphatically, "-_minute_ possibility remains that we could damage the ZedPM itself. _But,"_ he says more assuredly still as he turns back to Elizabeth, "we've got the three that were left behind during the Exodus to try on, plus the one that General O'Neill originally used to power the Antarctic Outpost. So that's four chances at getting it right, which means potentially four new ZedPMs to fight the Wraith _and_ the Ori with."

"And possibly four more chances of blowing a hole in the universe until you figure it out."

"You blow up _one_ solar system," he mutters under his breath, feeling himself flush at this. "It's not like that. If we do manage to damage the ZedPM in some way, all that's likely to happen is it cracks open – which does absolutely nothing but cause the wormhole inside to dissolve. No noise, no lights; nothing that could possibly blow a hole in the universe at all. Just a tiny crack that, in all likelihood, we'd not even notice until we went looking for it. Very anticlimactic – and safe – and the only thing we've lost is a ZedPM we couldn't use anyway. But there's only a one in one hundred chance of that happening – less than even once we run some preliminary tests on some inert crystals we've found with similar properties as the ones that make up the ZedPMs."

Elizabeth bites her lower lip, looking vaguely chastised by this remark. Or, at least, embarrassed that she'd voiced her fear at all. "It's not that I'm not thrilled, it's really not. It's just, well, wouldn't we be finding a lot more charged ZPMS if the Ancients had had an effective way of recharging them?"

"The Ancients were a race of people who went about regularly tapping the zero-point energy of _other__universes_. Suffice to say that conservation and efficiency were not exactly high on their list of priorities."

"Don't look at me," John shrugs when Elizabeth does just this, presumably for confirmation of this. "Science, once again, was never my thing. All I know is, Father and his colleagues did a lot of experimenting and they were never short for supplies, even after Tirianus fell."

Caldwell changes the direction of the conversation before Elizabeth has a chance to probe further – perhaps to ask, as Rodney has so often wondered, just what Tirianus was and why it's destruction had been so particularly devastating. Either way, it's a question that doesn't bare asking, not if they want honest answers, and they've other things to worry about today. "So how long before we'll be able to see if this idea of yours works or not?"

"It'll probably take two or three weeks to build all the equipment we'll need and another week at most to do the initial tests... So we're looking at the end of March at the earliest, depending on what the _Daedalus_' turn-around time on Earth is."

Though Earth days and calender months mean little on Atlantis, it is barely January by them. And, while waiting is the only option they have, the situation could change drastically in the time it would take _Daedalus _to get back to Earth, resupply, and arrive back at Atlantis. The Ori could reach the Milky Way before then or the Wraith could realize that Atlantis isn't as destroyed as they'd made her out to seem, but it's the best they can do.

"I've actually been thinking about that," John interrupts, surprising all of them.

"How so?"

"We take a leaf from my people's book and scrounge for it."

Rodney turns and looks at him. "For basic building supplies, yeah. But I've not exactly seen piles of superconductive materials laying about anywhere. At least, none that are in any places we can afford to _scrounge_ them from."

"Ah, but I've not shown you the really good labs yet."

"You haven't?" Rodney's mildly surprised by the hurt he hears in his voice.

"Do _you_ tell all your secrets to people you've just met?"

"You've known us for eighteen months!" Not to mention the fact that they'd been _seeing_ each other (or whatever the hell they wanted to call it) for the last twelve.

"Yes, well," he says somewhat abashedly, "I got distracted. 'Sides, it's not like there weren't plenty of normal, run-of-the-mill ones for you to explore."

"Eighteen _months_," Rodney repeats.

"The Genii. The Siege. Project Arcturus. The Asgard," John counts off on his fingers. "Do you _really_ need me to go on?"

"Fine. Whatever. But if there's something in one of them that could've kept you from almost _flying yourself into the side of a Wraith hive_-"

"There's not."

"-I might not ever be able to forgive you."

John's eye-roll is almost audible. "Race of cowards, remember? Things that could destroy the Wraith also had the potential to destroy us, so we kept them off-world in case something went wrong."

"That's... understandable, I suppose."

"I'm sure your approval would've meant everything to them," he says dryly. "So, now that we've got that out of the way, what do you way you let us finish up here, and then tomorrow we can start looking for the parts you need?"

"Fine, but don't think you and I won't be talking about this later."

"Wouldn't expect anything else."


	6. Pars Sex

_Socii_

An Ancient!John Story

* * *

><p><em>Pars Sex<em>

* * *

><p>"So, if Terrans celebrate the anniversary of your births and the presumed anniversary of the birth of the son of one of your gods, does this mean that you celebrate the anniversary of the start of your relationships as well?"<p>

Rodney looks blearily at John over the top of his coffee cup. They're sitting across from each other in the mess, John being his usual early morning self – which is to say, he's been up for three hours already, doing God knows what with Ronan and the Marines, and has pushed past his own early-morning dullness – and Rodney trying to caffeinate himself into a state of alertness. He hadn't really meant to stay up so late fine tuning the designs for the ZedPM recharger, but there were not words to describe how much he wanted it to work out perfectly, particularly given the disaster that he had made of Project Arcurtus. "What are you going on about?" he asks (fairly intelligibly, in his opinion).

"Terran celebrations, other than birthdays and Christmas."

"What about them?"

"What are they?" John says, an amused lilt to both his right eyebrow and the right corner of his mouth.

"What? Oh... graduations, anniversaries, various bank holidays – things like Easter, Thanksgiving, and Remembrance Day. And, believe me, if the idea of Christmas throws you for a loop, Easter is just going to confuse the hell out of you."

"Really?"

"Get Elizabeth to explain it to you. She might have a way of explaining it that doesn't make it sound like our ancestors were on something when they came up with it."

John's eyebrow arches higher, looking at him like he can't quite believe what he's saying (Rodney's explanations of both pre-Copernican cosmology and social networking had garnered similar, utterly askance looks from the Ancient). "So I was right, then?"

"About what?" Rodney asks, somewhat confused by the sudden change of topic and downing the last of his coffee in attempt to rectify this. Really and truly, he'd worked on _nuclear bombs_ on less sleep than this; a little exhaustion shouldn't slow his uptake _this_ much.

John only laughs, the sound foreign enough that Rodney thinks he can _hear_ the heads turning to look at them. They're at one of the balcony tables though – which is kinda stupid because it's the middle of the Lantean rainy season and, while it isn't raining now, there's a San Francisco-esque mist enveloping everything but the very tops of the highest towers – and there's not really anyone close enough to hear what they're saying. "According to the Terran calendar, it has been be three hundred and sixty-five of your days since _we_," he gestures between them with his fork, "became _us_."

Rodney blinks at him, does the math in his head, and then says, "Oh my god. You're a romantic. Why didn't I notice this before? I feel like this is something I should've noticed before." A flutter of panic beats against his chest. He'd thought that John really doesn't care about gifts or anniversaries or, hell, even the vocal acknowledgement of their feelings.

But still. These things add up, and, even if they don't _matter_, they're a mark against him; a tear at the fabric of their relationship that their _not caring_ makes even worse, because that means that neither of them would notice it start to unravel. And that can not be allowed to happen, 'cause John's the best thing to ever happen to him, the one and only person in the universe who, even if he doesn't _understand_ Rodney one hundred percent of the time, _gets_ him in a way no one else has ever been able to. And while Rodney suspects he'll never know all there is to know about Iohannes Ianidedus Licinus Pastor or even his Americanized _John Sheppard _incarnation, he also knows that he's probably the only person who's ever tried.

(There's probably a word for what they are, what they feel, above and beyond _amatores_, which is the only label they've ever dared apply to themselves. _Lovers_ seems too dirty, _boyfriends_ too trite, and _partners_ both too much and not enough. But, if there are any better words, they're in no language Rodney's ever learned.)

John, however, doesn't seem to notice Rodney's panic attack. Or, if he does, he's kind enough not to comment on it. Instead, he just props his elbow on the table and his chin into his palm, and says, "I only ask 'cause I've got a mountain of paperwork that Elizabeta _and_ 'Lantis are starting to call me out on, and Lorne promised to do mine if I gave him the right week for Zelenka's betting pool, and I'm thinking this might be the right time to call him out on it... "

The vice around Rodney's heart loosens instantly. "And the romance is gone," he fake sighs, falling back on sarcasm as he tries not to sigh audibly in relief. Then the rest of John's sentence hits him. "And I thought you said you were going to close down Zelenka's betting pools."

Rolling his eyes. "I merely pointed out to him that, if we ever _came out_," (he uses actual _air quotes_ here), "about some of the kinkier ones, his business would go bust with the odds. Most people," he explains, "seem to be of the opinion our sex life is completely opposite as to what is is, enough so that paying off the people who _do_ have it right would cost him five or six _Daedalus _trips worth of coffee and chocolate, not to mention half-a-year's pay."

"Can we _not_," he hisses, "talk about _that_ in the middle of the mess?"

"Who'd ever have thought that any descendants of Father's could be such prudes?" John mutters to himself, shaking his head somewhat wondrously. "But, speaking of Father, hurry up will you? _Daedalus_ is scheduled to leave first thing tomorrow, and I 'spect you'll need all day to just to rifle through all the drawers in his lab."

Rodney blinks at this. "I thought my lab now used to be his."

"His public one, yeah. But the one where he did all his secret experiments, the ones not even I was supposed to know about...? That's on the East Pier and, if it wasn't flooded too badly during the Storm, it should have what you need. If not, Forcul had a couple of workspaces that might still be intact, as did a few of the _periti, _so we'll probably be able to find at least some of what you need, but..."

"But?" he prompts.

John leans forward, his eyes (more mercurial than even his moods) a flinty grey-green above deeply pursed lips. He doesn't speak until Rodney's leaning forward too, so that their faces are only scant inches from each other, and even then his words are discordantly harsh against the intimacy of their positions. "But there are things in these labs that should never have seen the light of day. Things born out of utmost desperation at the end of a war that started seventy-two years before I was even born. Some of it you might be able to salvage, in time, and turn into something we can actually use. But most of it..." John pulls back suddenly, eyes going to the ocean that is barely visible through the mist, and his whispered declaration, "There are things even I won't do to save this city," is so quiet that, save for the movement of his lips, he mightn't have said it at all.

Rodney, who has seen John Ascend and fly nukes into ships and kill sixty invaders without batting an eye, has never actually be scared of the prospect of anything they might find on Atlantis until that moment.

* * *

><p>"I do these personnel evaluations out of necessity only," Radek says the moment Rodney enters his lab some time later, startling so deeply he'd have spilled coffee all over himself if he'd not finished his latest cup on the way up here.<p>

"What's with the sneaking?" Rodney snaps when he has his breath back. "Trying to give me a heart attack? 'Cause don't think you'll be getting your hands on my research if I die. I've paperwork back on Earth that very specifically spell out you're not allowed anywhere near it if it so much as smells like you've had a part in my death."

"No, no," Radek practically cackles, using a finger to push his glasses up his nose as he looks up from his laptop, "I've every intention of being _L'Éminence Grise_ for as long as possible – the paperwork is most tedious, but it is preferable to the running around like a headless chicken you must do."

Rodney resolutely sets down his coffee cup and goes about gathering the things he needs to rummage around more-potentially-dangerous-than-usual labs in search of copper wiring and superconductive material that could create a magnetic field of at least 43 Teslas at no greater than 55 Kelvin. Which is to say, a pair of gloves, some basic tools, and, of course, his tablet and all the requisite wires and adapters that went with it.

And then, because he can't bottle it in any longer, "And I don't _run around like a headless chicken_."

"I only mean the constant demands on your time pull on you, like marionette, only without the unfortunate puppet-master overtones. Myself, I prefer to stay on Atlantis and carry out my research uninterrupted."

"Yes, well, while your lack of multitasking skills explain so much, you still haven't explained _why_ you're in my lab."

With a put upon sigh, "I told you. I am doing personnel evaluations."

"Yes, yes. _That_ you said," (Rodney is not going to look a gift horse in the mouth and ask _why_ Radek was doing them, as they are something Rodney had been putting off since before the first test of the Arcturus weapon), "but why are you doing them _here_?"

"Because my lab shares servers with the other science labs," is all the explanation the Czech gives. Which, upon reflection, is really all that's needed. As much as the people who work for him are idiots, most are competent enough to write a program that could find their specific evaluation and change it to make them out to be far more competent than they actually are.

"Well then. You have fun with that. John and I are off to rummage through some of the labs for components for the ZedPM recharger."

"Do you need any help?"

Thoughts drifting back to their conversation in the mess, "I think John would prefer it if it were just the two of us, actually."

Radek gets that slightly manic expression Rodney's privately labelled his _demonic Czech yenta_ look. "Enjoy your date then."

"It's not a _date. _It's two people who happen to be romantically involved digging through junk drawers, looking for parts to build a device that could change the face of the universe as we know it."

"Date," Zelenka repeats with greater feeling.

"I guess if you're going to insist on calling it that, you can also handle any world ending crises that crop up between now and, oh, 0800 tomorrow morning."

Radek's _demonic Czech yenta_ look shifts into the pained one he gets when asked to build nuclear weapons while hopped up on methamphetamines or extract the consciousnesses of Marine lieutenants from his boss's brain _post haste_. "I am happy for you and the Colonel, I truly am, but, _z lásky k bohu_, I neither need nor want to know the details of your sex life. _Není-li jsem kdy chtějí mít možnost podívat se jeden z vás do očí znovu._"

One of these days, Rodney resolves, he's going to learn Czech, if only so he can know what Zelenka is going on about when he lapses into his native language.

But still. "If you don't want to know the details of my sex life, why do you have a _betting pool_ on it?" he accuses.

The other man doesn't have the grace to blush. "I do as the market requires," he shrugs, looking back at his laptop and typing something in. "And is not like I sit around all day, pestering you for confirmation of any of it, as others would, so it works out for the best."

"I'll be the judge of that. But, if you really must know, today _does _turn out to be our anniversary or something – by Earth's calendar, at least – so if you could just pay Lorne his winnings, he can start on John's paperwork and then, maybe, John and I can actually _do_ something about it."

Radek unexpectedly flushes at this, but after a moment manages, "Really? I wondered why Evan had placed his bet for this week. I should have suspected he was getting inside information – most people go for the weeks right after we arrived on Atlantis, or else right before the Siege."

"Huh," he says, because, really, what else can one say when being told about how the outside world views one's relationship? After a minute he manages, "Well, as interesting this is, I'm supposed to be meeting John in the Control Room, and God knows what he'll get caught up in if I don't get down there soon."

Zelenka just mutters, "_Ano. Budeme mluvit zítra,_" which must be some kind of acknowledgement, because that's all he gets.

* * *

><p>"We are <em>not<em> calling it a ZPM recharger," John says earnestly half-an-hour later, after Rodney's saved him from death-by-requisition-forms (in the shape of the new logistics specialist, who had more interest in her CO than Rodney is anywhere comfortable with, even if it appears mostly professional), when they're walking down a seemingly endless corridor on the third floor of one of the East Pier's taller towers. Despite it's height – and it's distance from the edge of the pier – there's a waterline a foot or so above their heads from the storm surge that had hit the city before they could get the shield activated during the Storm. Hopefully, the water will not have ruined anything of importance in the lab John's taking him to – if, that is, they ever get to it.

"Why not?"

"'Cause."

"That's not a reason. It's an adulteration of the English language."

"And _ZPM rechager_ is a debasement of the Alteran."

Rodney blinks at him. "I can't believe you just used the word _debasement_ in a sentence."

"It's called a translation matrix," John sighs, coming to halt about twenty meters from a dead end.

"Yes, yes, but still. There had to be a twenty-five cent word going in to get a twenty-five cent word coming out."

John gives him one of his _I've no idea what you're talking about, but I guess I love you anyway_ looks and picks up a fallen sconce off the floor. He examines it for a moment, turning it over in his hand several times before hanging it back on the wall, taking great care to make sure it hangs level.

The sconce is so pleased to be back in place, it actually gives off a faint tone.

It's actually mildly troublesome to watch, and Rodney can't help but wonder if Atlantis' apparent mania with interior decorating has finally gotten to John.

"What I mean is, since when do you care about the _debasement of the Alteran language_?" Actually, what he means is _why do you hide yourself like this? why do you insist on pretending to be dumber than you are almost everyone who isn't me? why am I different? why are you showing me this place if you're afraid of what we might find there? why do you think you have to buy my love when it should be obvious I couldn't not love you if I tried? _But it's easier to ask about the words John actually uses than the sentiment behind them. To do otherwise would be to invite sullen looks and shrugged explanations that would only make Rodney blindingly angry at the man who was John's father in name only.

"Always," John says blandly, picking up a second sconce and repeating the process with it. It too chimes with happiness when properly hung. "Why do you think I wouldn't let you call the puddle jumpers _gate ships_?"

"Because you instinctively hate any name up with?"

"Which is why I'll be naming the kids."

"Ha, ha. Very funny, John."

"You laugh, but my appreciation of Terran culture does _not_ extend to your names. Some of them are tolerable, but others... I mean, do you have any idea how many _Michael_s and _David_s and _Robert_s there are on this base alone?"

"Says the man named _John_."

"I'll have you know I was the only _Iohannes_ on Atlantis," John sniffs dramatically, eyes casting about for something – which, as Rodney finds out a moment later, turns out to be yet another light fixture. "Not my fault that your lot bastardized it and turned it into the commonest thing under your sun."

Favouring John with a fond, if exasperated, look, Rodney silently vows to find a way to deal with the city's interior design mania without resorting to paint swatches as he watches John hang the final sconce. "Maybe it is. Your dad's hologram did say he would miss you, and the fact so many of us have the ATA gene means he must've had at least one kid while on Earth... Is it possible that he could've named that kid after you?"

John wrinkles his nose. "That's hardly Father's style. He'd have saddled the kid with some ridiculous Alteran name that none of the locals could pronounce and only have mentioned my existence in the whole _even my dead half-wit son could do better than that_ sort of way."

"Seriously?" As much as Rodney couldn't imagine never _not_ loving John, he just as equally can't imagine anyone else not loving him either. Hell, he'd known John's relationship with Janus was the very definition of strained, but there were also times when Rodney'd gotten the feeling that it was John and his father, raging together against the universe.

John pointedly ignores the question, fiddling with the final sconce. After what might be ages, but is probably only minutes, he says, "Father's secret lab is on the other side of that wall, if you still want to see it," and, well, there's really nothing Rodney can say to that either that won't make things worse.

"I love you," Rodney says an indeterminable amount of time later, when he's given up hacking into Janus' notes for a time when he actually, well, has _time_ to do so, in favour of opening up all the cabinets and seeing what's inside.

John's sitting on the floor, on a spot near the door with a tablet perched on his knees, and doesn't look up, or even acknowledge he's being addressed.

"I love you, and it's not contingent on you being a genius or saving my life or anything else. I love you because you're _you_, and, okay, maybe you felt you had to buy your father's love, but you don't have to with me."

"That's not-" John begins, cutting himself off quickly once he apparently realizes he'd spoken aloud. His eyes – impossibly bright and shining, even from across the room – flit briefly between Rodney and the ceiling before boring holes into his tablet.

It's an unconscionable time later when John, voice hoarse, asks, "Does that mean you don't want to see the general theory of Diophantine equations I've been working on?"

"It means you're an idiot with worse interpersonal skills than me, as astounding as that may sound."

"Oh."

There's a beat.

"And what do you mean _general theory_ of Diophantine equations? I thought that sort of thing was impossible – you know what, don't tell me. Let me finish raiding your father's lab, and maybe building the ZedPM recharger, and _then_ dazzle me with your brilliance. It tends to be very distracting, and I'm behind enough on things as it is."

John just laughs, and, just like that, things are back to normal between them.

Neither of them notice one of Janus' devices silently activating in the corner.

* * *

><p><strong>an:**

_z lásky k bohu - _"Ffr the love of god"

_Není-li jsem kdy chtějí mít možnost podívat se jeden z vás do očí znovu. - _"Not if I ever want to be able to look either of you in the eye ever again."

_Ano. Budeme mluvit zítra__ - _"Yes. Talk to you tomorrow."


End file.
